


It's Not A Perfect Plan

by jonesyslug



Series: Pills [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Character Study, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22453195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonesyslug/pseuds/jonesyslug
Summary: Stan tries to keep his schedule and routine, but sometimes life just gets in the way.
Relationships: Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: Pills [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544398
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	It's Not A Perfect Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Stan, my boy, my boy. This entry of Pills was the hardest to write so far because I love Stan and Patty so much that k find myself just wanting to write pure fluff and let them be endlessly happy.

Stan woke up without the assistance of an alarm at 6:35 AM. He usually woke up around this time, because he usually went to bed at the same time, after taking his medications at the same time, and eating his dinner at the same time. 

He could be spontaneous if he wanted to, but he very much enjoyed routine. Being able to count on things happening when they were supposed to happen made all the difference. It relaxed him. 

He sat up and looked at his wife, still sleeping soundly and bathed in blue early morning light. He didn't know how she managed it, but she got more gorgeous every day. He smiled and grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. 

Patty stirred slightly, but remained asleep, only smiling slightly and muttering. 

"Stanley…"

"I love you, Patricia." He said, putting her hand back down. He turned and swung his legs off the bed, his feet hitting the cold hardwood floor.

He hissed a breath in through his teeth. The cold always woke him up. Oh, what he'd give to stay in the warm bed with Patty. He didn't care if he got more sleep, he just wanted to hold her. 

He clenched his jaw and stood, walking to the bathroom, and he could feel the warmth draining out of him. Not just his body, but his heart. His mind. 

Another day at work was ahead of him. He looked at himself. He was well rested, he could thank the Ambien for that, but he still looked tired. He supposed it was all hiding in the muscles around his eyes and brows. It wasn't physical exhaustion, it was waning spirit. 

Work had a schedule in a technical sense, it had a usual start and end time, but between them, everything was variables. Not only that, but they made him work late fairly often. He thought his bosses might have some sort of supernatural sense of the days when he needed to get home and see his wife the most. 

He opened his medicine cabinet and got out everything he needed for his morning routine. 75mg of Wellbutrin down the hatch, a glass of water. Brush teeth. Shower. Shave. 

His least favorite part, the shaving… it threw off his schedule, even though it was almost routine for him to get distracted by the pink scars running down his cheeks and across his chin. The razor would scrape over them, and it felt so strange that these marks- he'd had as long as he could remember but he knew nothing about them. 

He knew, from pictures of himself as a child, that he hadn't  _ always _ had them. He ran his fingers over the slightly raised skin. He squinted at his reflection. He felt unnerved and disgusted. Not disgusted at himself but there was a definite feeling of absolutely dreading and hating  _ something.  _ He took a deep breath and opened the medicine cabinet so he couldn't see his reflection, then went to get dressed. 

By then, Patty was awake and making him egg whites and toast. She cooked his toast perfectly every time. Recently she had switched them from regular butter to plant based butter. Stan always raved that he couldn't tell the difference. 

That morning he sat and listened to Patty describe her dream. She always had the most beautiful and elaborate dreams. Other planets, tall flowers making a forest, iridescent skies. It was all so beautiful. 

She always asked Stan about his dreams, but he insisted he didn't remember them. In actuality, his dreams woke him up regularly before he'd started the Ambien. He'd be painting and sweating and thanking everything that Patty slept so heavily. Because the things that lived in his sleeping mind were terrifying. 

The Wellbutrin dulled it a bit, but whatever progress it had made, the Ambien seemed to undo. The only catch was, now he didn't get to wake up from them. He had to see them through. He was sure he'd died in his mind in every possible way and about a hundred impossible ways. 

But he didn't want to ditch taking it. For one, he actually felt rested when he woke up, and for two, he loved the warm and fuzzy feeling it gave him when it kicked in and he wasn't yet asleep. Patty had recorded him once, improvising sonnets of love for her. He liked that. He was going to have nightmares either way, he figured. He might as well have some fun. 

Patty stirred her tea. "I'm uh- I'm ovulating." 

Stan looked up from his plate. His stomach dropped. They'd been trying for so long, and he just didn't know what was wrong. The doctors didn't know what was wrong. At this point, Stan was paranoid enough to think it was something mental on his part. Psychosomatic impotence. 

" _ Patricia,  _ you do me a great disservice thinking you have to tell me. You know scheduled sex is my favorite kind."

Patty laughed and grabbed Stan's hand. "I really feel… I feel a renewed sense of energy about it. I feel like it's really going to happen soon." 

Stan swallowed hard. "Yeah?" He asked, with an unsure smile. 

"You're going to be a great dad, Stanley." 

Stan nodded stiffly. "Yeah, I hope so." 

He felt strange, like he was about to cry. He really did want a kid. Badly. He wanted to make Patty a mother and have a beautiful child with her and watch them grow, and at the same time- 

There was something thorny growing over the idea.  _ Children are not safe in this world.  _

Then, something worse.  _ No one is safe in this world.  _

Darkness creeping in and it was only breakfast. He shook his head. 

"Are you alright, sweetie?" 

"I'm… I'm fine, Patty." Stan said, with a small smile. 

Patty sighed. "I wish you wouldn't lie to me, Stan." She whispered. 

Stan was stunned for a moment, then wrapped his fingers around Patty's chin. "I'm not lying. How could I be anything other than fine in your presence?" 

He kissed her softly. When he pulled back she kissed him on the forehead. 

"I shouldn't let you get away with stuff like that." She said, her cheeks slightly pink. "But you're so good at it."

Stan smirked. "I am, aren't I?" 

It pained him that Patty knew he could look her in the eye and tell her everything was fine when he felt like his world was crumbling, but how could it be anything but an insult to her that he still could manage to have bad days with such a wonderful woman in his life? And how was he supposed to bring himself to tell her about the deep and scary things in his mind. The tricky, unloveable things. His sadness was contagious and he was never, never going to let Patty catch it. 

Stan looked at his empty plate and coffee cup and sighed. That meant it was time for another day at work. Another wave of microagressions because he had the fucking nerve to be a Jewish accountant. The pain behind his eyes started. 

_ I haven't even been looking at the damn screens yet.  _

Stan knew he could be doing a lot worse. He knew not everyone with depression like his had a good support system the way he did. Things got really, really dark sometimes, but he had yet to feel pushed past the point of asking for help. He had a few short hospital stays under his belt, and as unpleasant as they were, he considered them triumphs. They meant he was aware. They meant he was still here. 

Of course, taking time off work to stay in the psych ward got him a few sideways glances from people who knew, but he didn't care too much about them anyway. He just worked there. He did have a few friends at work, but he considered that a luxury. He was there to clock in, keep his head down, and clock out. He was there to keep a roof over his wife's head and food on their plates, and since it was fucking  _ Georgia,  _ he was there to keep the A/C running. 

When the bus stopped in front of his office block, he got off and sent Patty a text, wishing her luck with her day. Like he always did. 

He straightened his tie. 

"Back to the grind." He said, stepping into the building. 

How he could go from feeling like Icarus to Atlas in such a short amount of time astonished him. 

But maybe that was just life. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Champagne Year by Saint Vincent because you know I'm listening to my character playlists when I write these 🤣
> 
> Comments are worth more to me than money, and keep in mind, I'm a broke bitch.


End file.
